


Best Foot Forward

by jessebee



Series: Holidays [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: Early Days, M/M, Timestamp, Traditions, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's c-cold outside on New Year's Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Foot Forward

The sudden, sharp noise wrenched Doyle out of a dream that he'd rather not have been having anyway. He jackknifed upright with a gasp, and then a groan as his shoulder reminded him that it was a very poor idea to be moving that fast just now. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and the living-room light, and waited for the world to settle. Christ, he knew better than to fall asleep on this couch, particularly when he'd been banged up, the stupid thing twisted his back every time –

Loud thuds sounded again and Doyle opened his eyes just a bit and squinted down his short hallway. Somebody was banging on his door at – he squinted at his watch – five past midnight.

What the bloody fuck?

Work would have phoned or called on the R/T, and Bodie – Bodie had his keys. A neighbour, needing something?

Or someone wanting him to think that.

God, what a life –

“C'mon, Doyle, you'd better be home.”

Bodie?

Doyle pushed himself off the couch and shuffled toward his front door, grimacing as his shoulder complained. He _hated_ dislocations, the muscles ached fiercely long after the joint had been put to rights. “What?” No point in sounding friendly if –

“Finally! 's me, mate, open up.”

“Bodie.” Doyle put his hands to the top lock. “What – ?”

“Alone and palely exhausted, with me hands full. Open the door, will you?” And he did sound tired, even muffled through the wood. Doyle got the second lock undone and swung the door open.

His partner was propped against the wall, arms crossed, weighted carrier bag dangling off one wrist. “Bloke could freeze to death, waiting for you,” Bodie said. Cold positively radiated off his parka but his eyes were warm, and a lick of heat ran up Doyle's spine. “Here,” Bodie went on, handing Doyle the bag as he stepped inside the flat. “Happy New Year. And put yer sling back on, does your shoulder no good if you're not actually _wearing_ it.”

Oh, yeah, it was New Year's Day now, wasn't it. “It's fine,” Doyle protested automatically, caught between relief and disappointment not to have been snogged senseless right there in the doorway. Wasn't he entitled now? “Should have been out there with you, not --”

“Give over, mate.” Bodie was stripping off his coat as he spoke, and launched it at a chair as he passed the lounge on the way to Doyle's kitchen. “Cold like this'd freeze your shoulder stiff in no time, and what if you'd had to hop quick to protect my tall, dark and beautiful self? God knows _I'm_ frozen, need a cuppa to get me fingers de-iced, where's the – ah,” as he spied the kettle and lifted it off the countertop. “Very inconsiderate of you, Raymond, getting yourself duffed up just before the New Year's obbo and lumbering me with Anson ...”

Bemused, Doyle listened to his partner rattle on, watched him fill the kettle and retrieve the box of PG Tips. A rustle reminded him of the bag he still held. “So how'd you get off so soon? And what did you …?” In the depths of the plastic: bread, a small chunk of coal, a bottle of whisky, and the glint of a silver coin.

Doyle stared at the items for a long moment before he raised his head to stare at his partner's back instead. “Bodie. Is this …?”

Bodie did something with the box of tea and didn't quite look over his shoulder. “Don't know your own New Year traditions? For shame, mate.”

“I know 'em, and I know you don't do 'em, either. Especially not _this_ one, because you told me don't. You were very clear, sunshine – people make their own luck and you're not getting blamed when someone else's doesn't work out.” Which Doyle was pretty sure wasn't actually the reason.

“Yeah. Well.” Bodie finally turned around. “Have to this year, don't I.”

Doyle questioned him with a look and saw, to his amazement, faint colour bloom over Bodie's cheekbones.

“Best start to the year, to – everything.” Bodie took a breath. “To us. It's important.”

Bread so they'd always have food, coal so the house would always be warm, silver so that they'd not lack for money. And whisky to warm the cockles of the heart. Brought by a dark, handsome man, the lucky First Foot over the threshold.

Doyle's heart melted, he felt it go. “You lunatic,” he whispered. He stepped in close, trapping Bodie against the counter, smelling the cold night in Bodie's hair, and his partner's own wonderful scent. “You great big softie.”

Bodie opened his mouth and Doyle stopped it with a kiss, kissed him quiet, kissed him long, kissed him until they were both making other kinds of noises. “Don't worry,” Doyle murmured eventually, when he let go long enough to dump the bag on the countertop. “Secret's safe with me.”

“Strictly need to know, eh?” Bodie said softly, a little out of breath.

“Better believe it, mate. And these days, I'm the only one on that list.”

 

end

**Author's Note:**

> Timestamp for _This Christmastide._ This was supposed to have been out for the challenge shortly after Christmas, but I always have been crap at writing to a deadline *g*. Huge thanks again to BySlantedLight for more beta-thwappage, gods only know what horror-show this would read like if not for her.


End file.
